Erlkönig
by team-free-friggin-will
Summary: Inspired by the poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. 12-year-old Dean is badly injured. As John carries his wounded son through the forest and the story behind his injury unfolds, the boy gets plagued with hallucinations of a man in a black suit following them, trying to get the boy to come with him. (The story doesn't actually feature the supernatural being "Erlkönig") Weechesters
1. Fear

John Winchester runs like hell. His face is hollow despite the fear growing inside him. His flesh creeps and the hair on the back of his neck rises like the hackles of a dog. It's a feeling he's very unused to. He had faced off the most ghastly, twisted creatures in the universe, but nothing compares to the fear he now feels. It's like melting tallow under the surface of his skin, feverish and hot—unlike his boy, who's skin is cold and clammy to the touch as he flops lifelessly in his father's arms, occasionally exhaling a pained groan. The boy's hair is plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. His eyelids drooping, hardly able to keep conscious.

John's leather boots thud against the forest floor, kicking up dirt and shards of rock. In the past few moments he'd managed to put a significant gap between him and the corpses.

"Stay with me, Dean! C'mon, bud! Stay awake!" he orders sternly, voice throaty and breathless. He glances down at Dean. He's pale, lips blue and body fragile. His hands are trembling in his lap, trying to apply pressure to the wound. Crimson blood stains his palms and under his fingernails. It had seeped through the fabric of his Led Zeppelin tee and caked his deep abdominal wound—and goddamn, it looks _bad._

The twelve-year-old's head lulls as his father ducks under another thick branch. He can feel the man's rapid heart beat against him and hear his heavy breathing. His vision is blurred and obscure, barley able to see anything at all.

Dean swallows dryly, "D-Dad," he says shakily, struggling to find his voice, "it hurts." he chokes out.

"It's okay, kiddo. Everything's gonna be fine. Just keep pressure on it." John strains, struggling to hold himself together.

This is his damn fault. It is because of him that his eldest is limp in his arms, clinging to consciousness. John internally traces back to the moment he fucked everything up. It was one day prior to the enormous mess.

….

Over the years John Winchester had formulated a few basic guidelines for securing a good stay at a motel—even if he hardly stayed there at all and was typically out on a hunt.

His first rule was to always reserve ahead—under an alias of course—second rule, reserve at a franchise motel if possible—you know, your Holiday Inn, your Comfort Inn, your Motel 6. Third, always get a room on the end, that way you could only get one set of noisy neighbors. It was his system, and it worked well. When pulling into the Cadillac Motel, everything seemed normal. Standard, easy case, average, hyper boys. All was pretty ordinary for the Winchesters.

After John got the key from an elderly man in a red vest, the family shuffled into the motel room and unloaded the few possessions they had. Sammy—his youngest—was the neater of the two. Always unpacking his clothes and books in an orderly fashion. The shirts and pants were even folded too. Dean was significantly messier. He was almost a teenager, and John knew they were like that.

It had only recently registered to John that his oldest was almost thirteen. He was growing up. The boy had gotten a lot older in the past year. His voice had grown deeper, and his face was more mature, losing the remaining baby fat he had. He was strong too—could almost beat his old man in an arm wrestle. Lately, John had begun to think about taking him on a hunt. He'd been training Dean for sometime now, and he knew the boy was eager to help. If he did decide to, this might be the perfect opportunity.

In the past few weeks there had been a number of unexplained disappearances around some woods where there were a number of different trails, and one mangled body had turned up. The various victims had zero connections and there was always the possibility of it being a dead end case—but when did that ever happen? John figured it was a Wendigo, a common being he had tackled numerous times before. It was easy enough, and a good opportunity to show Dean the ropes. It was at that moment that John Winchester sealed his son's fate.

….

John can feel the warm, crimson blood drip on to his hands from his son's wound. He readjusts his grip, one arm is under Dean's legs, the other supporting his back. John had found that it was slightly comforting when Dean groaned in pain, it assured him his boy was still breathing. A low moan makes its way up Dean's throat, and he whimpers something inaudible. At first John ignores it, trying to focus on getting to the Impala and driving to a hospital, but Dean repeats himself, a little louder but still too muffled to understand.

"What's that, Dean?" he breathes.

Dean's transfixed on something over John's shoulder. He stares intently at it, eyelids heavy. His gaze shifts to his father, and he says something that makes John's blood run cold, "Dad, there's a someone behind you."

….

John loosened his tie as he sat in the driver's of the Impala. He heaved a heavy sigh, mentally drained after interviewing some of the family of the victims. The woman he'd just spoken to, who was uncontrollably emotional, ended up sobbing all over his suit. John knew how apathetic that thought sounded, but after doing years and years of hunts, he had little patience for things of this nature. He hunched over against the stirring wheel, resting his eyes for a moment.

Dean sat in the back, smirking, "I take it that went well."

John scoffed, "Oh, just peachy."

"You were in there for a while. What'd ya get outta the brod?"

"Nothing we don't already know." John grunted, "Although she did mention some butcher down the road, knows her husband pretty well. She said he was the one to see the husband last."

"Well, we gotta go talk to 'im!" Dean said eagerly.

"My thoughts exactly."

….

John's heart thrums like a wire, casting his eyes over his shoulder to the apparent presence following him and his boy. His pupils flick back and forth, in search of this unknown enemy. Alas, the forest is vacant other than the two hunters, the deceased monster, and the victims' corpses many yards away. He looks worriedly back at Dean.

"There's nothing there." he breathes, heart breaking as he cradles his injured, delirious son.

"No," Dean persists, "Dad, h-he's right there." he sounds scared and weak. "You have to go faster! He's gonna get me!"

John picks up his pace, "Dean, who's going to get you?"

"The man in the black suit." hot tears blur Dean's vision as he grips his father tightly.

John doesn't know how to respond, "There's no man there. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you! You're going to be fine. There's no one there, bud."

But Dean keeps at it, crying into John's coat about how the man in the black suit is right behind him. John glances over his shoulder once more. Nothing.


	2. The Butcher

John had at first eyed the butcher suspiciously. The man had a dark complexion and his eyes had a harsh red pigment of bloodshot. He was a heavy-set man with stained clothing and an over all odd energy around him. His words often slurred, though he didn't appear intoxicated. But as the conversation between the two progressed, the hunter's feelings changed slightly. He came to the conclusion that the butcher wasn't a serial killer, just a big, annoying pain in John Winchester's ass. They'd been talking for a good fifteen minutes about different types of meat before his missing friend even came up. In the man's defense, he actually had some fairly valuable information about his friend and what time of day he left for the hike.

"-Yeah, y'know, I woulda gone wif him—but does dis body look like da hikin' type to you, agent?" John remained silent, "Dat yer boy in tha car?" he gave Dean a wave and then proceeded to drawl on with useless small talk for the next five minutes.

"Anyway, I shud probly let you go now." Yes, freedom. "Bettcha got important agent business goin' on." he snorted before giving John a firm handshake. The hunter forced a smile and started for his car.

Once out of the butcher's sight and fastened in the impala, John allowed his head to fall against the stirring wheel. What was wrong with the people in this town? Dean was having a freaking field day though. Got to miss school and see a small piece of his father die inside with each idiotic interview. What a ball.

….

The man's eyes are glazed over and sunken in as he outstretches his boney, liver-spotted hand outward to Dean, beckoning him. His face is cracked and dry, but he doesn't give off a haunting nature. No, instead of flashing his ghastly teeth in a terrifying growl, he gives the young boy a warm, sympathetic smile. This gives Dean a strange sense of welcoming and peace. He watches from over his father's shoulder, face tear-stained and red, glaring in wonder.

"I think he wants me to go with him." Dean states quietly, inaudible to his father.

….

The sleek muscle car rolled over gravel into the parking lot of the forest trails. Dean thumped his black converse to the beat of the music blaring through the speakers. It was an old Eagles song, laced with static. They were more of a soft rock, but still a favorite to Dean. He sang the lyrics softly under his breath as the car coasted to a halt, a wave of nausea passing over him. He was a tad nervous, first hunt and all. He felt he was going in blind, although his father had tested him numerous times on Wendigos and their weaknesses—fire. That was their main weapon on this hunt. Equipped with flare guns, the two exited the Impala.

Rocks crunched and shifted beneath Dean as he walked steadily to the trunk. With a grunt, he heaved the hidden compartment of the trunk open and handed his father the rest of their things. John had come prepared. He knew there was always the chance that it wasn't a Wendigo, but there wasn't another way to find out other than going in, locked and loaded. So, he brought all they could fit. Guns, knifes, holy water, salt, and crucifixes galore.

Dean opened up their arsenal after clipping on his belt. It was equipped with a holster for his gun and a sheath for his knife, and John could tell the boy felt like quite the bad-ass when wearing it. Dean secured his weapons to the belt and closed the trunk.

John clapped a hand on the eldest's shoulder, "Ready?"

A cocky grin cut across Dean's face, swallowing the fear he had, "Hell yeah."

Dean's legs burned slightly as he walked up the narrow trail, sweat breaking across his forehead and upper lip. His father walked a few steady paces ahead, sun setting just bellow the horizon. His eyes scanned their surroundings, sharp and alert. The terrain was a little steep, jagged rocks embedded in the earth making it difficult to navigate upward. There were a few trail options to get where they wanted to go, but John had chosen the most difficult. Naturally.

The forest seemed vacant. Almost all of it had been closed off since the disappearances. But it seemed that even the animals were still that evening. Dean kept trying to settle himself, his stomach was on edge, nerves getting the best of him. He thought of the dream Sam had had the previous day. That was what really got to him.

Sam had woke with a start, practically shaking. Dean tried to calm him down, telling him everything was fine. But the younger boy just clung to him tightly, crying hysterically into Dean's chest about how he didn't want to be alone, how he didn't want Dean to die. It gave the eldest chills to even think about it. Sam didn't speak much to Dean about the dream, he'd fallen back asleep before he'd gotten a chance, and Dean knew he shouldn't bring it back up—even though he desperately wanted to know more about it.

Dean spent the majority of the hike trying to convince himself that dreams were only dreams. Nothing more. But it was pointless. His imagination had already started to wander.

"Hey Dad," Dean started, shakily, "Sammy had a-"

Suddenly all air was knocked from the boy as large hands curled tightly around his shoulders and yanked him back. Nails dug into his skin. He veered around to a figure grabbing him, and yanked his knife from its sheath.

The figure's face was hidden by shade from over hanging trees and blocked out sunlight. Thick strings of drool hung from his face, as if he were a rabid animal. He was speaking frantically, but having trouble forming a clear sentence. Dean's eyes were wide with fear as he was shaken violently by the figure, unable to escape its grasp.

That's when John leaped into action. He flung the figure back, causing him to stumble and collapse, kicking up dirt as he made contact with the solid ground. The hunter then dropped to his knees, placing a cold blade up to the figure's jugular. "Don't you ever touch my boy! Hear me, you son of a bitch?!" he shouted, hot breath pressing against the enemy's angular visage.

Dean stood, dumbfounded, clasping his weapon tightly. He could see his father's face was a harsh red, anger and adrenalin surging through him.

Dean looked steadily over his father's shoulder, heart pounding in his ears. The figure was a man. He was pale, face tight skin on bone. His cheeks were sunken in, eyes hot and watery. He was sniveling, weak and pathetic. John eased the pressure on his throat, slowly letting up. Suddenly realization clicked in Dean's mind. It was him. One of the people they'd been searching for. One of the missing.

"Huh-he's going to kill us." the man wheezed before lapsing into unconsciousness.

….

Pressing against the stiff leather of the car's interior, John leans in and lays his son gently down in the backseat. The birdcage of Dean's chest rises and falls shakily with each hacking breath. His breathing is a rattling in the chest. He's growing weaker, eyes fluttering, fighting to stay open.

John clicks the door shut and frantically gets in the driver's. Smoke belches from the pipe and the Impala hums to life as he turns the key.

Trees blend together as John speeds passed. His heart is a warm, beating hammer in his throat as he grips the stirring wheel tightly, knuckles white. His breathing is low and gravelly, tears blurring his vision. He can't lose his boy. Not like this. Not like Mary.

He can hear Dean attempting to speak, his words slurred and incoherent. He shushes him, telling him to save his strength. They'll be at the hospital soon.

"Soon.." John breathes, "Soon..."


	3. Stream

Dean stares up at the Impala's roof, eyes mere slits. His face is still, all movement seizing besides the gentle rocking from the vehicle. All color is drained from him. His lips are cracked and dry, and eyes surely glazing over. He tries to push away the soft cry of Sam's voice that echoes through his head, telling Dean how he doesn't want him to die. _Well boy, Sammy, do I have some bad news for you,_ he thinks.

….

Trees with sprawling limbs and bark mottled and splotched guarded the darkness, blotting out any remaining light. John grunted as he heaved forward, the unconscious man slung over his shoulders in a kind of fireman carry. Dean felt as though they'd been walking for hours through the dark, completely disoriented. And the flashlight the duo had been equipped with was weak, it could only be turned on so often.

Dean had been cautiously using the remaining battery, checking the crinkled map in his possession sparingly. He clicked his flashlight on. It was dim, battery nearly drained. He unfolded the map and attempted to smooth out the creases. It was worn and showed white in the folds.

Dean cleared his throat, "Dad, I don't think we're going the right way." His father didn't respond but gave a brief glance in Dean's direction-a sign that he was listening, but also waiting for a solution. "Honestly," Dean said gently, "I don't really know where we are anymore." again, silence.

The light flickered. "The battery won't last long if you waste it like that." John uttered, voice gravelly. Dean quickly flicked it off. "Alright, so the map's no help to us." the man sighed, "We need to find another way back to the car."

They stood for a moment. John's breath was shallow, his triceps burning. The surrounding silhouettes of various trees and boulders were thick and heavy against the night. Dean swallowed dryly and scanned the area, hoping to find something that could help them.

"Hear that?" John asked, looking over to his boy.

Dean blinked, straining his ears to listen. Then he heard it. The faint sound of rushing water. "A stream." he smiled, "If we follow it-"

"We can find our way out and get this guy to a hospital." the two locked eyes, both smiling.

"Let's go."

The duo trekked toward the stream for close to a half an hour before John uttered an order in a low, sharp voice, "Quiet!" The two halted and the hunter's eyes flicked back and forth, surveying the area. He had heard something. Instinctively, Dean's fingers inched toward his gun.

….

Fog presses up against the glass, the road and its surroundings growing more and more obscure through the thick haze. John strains to see the narrow dirt road ahead of him, frequently looking back at his boy, making sure he's still breathing. Guilt plagues the man. Everything could have been avoided if he hadn't been so naive. But despite the overwhelming guilt-with the car's back to the forest-he drives on.

….

It took only mere seconds for the twelve-year-old to hear the alarming snarl that cut through the darkness around them. That's what his father had heard. Where it came from, neither knew. Dean felt a stab of fear like nothing he'd ever felt before. It was watching them. He could feel it.

It was in this tense moment of silence when an odd thought crept up on Dean. _He._ The missing man had referred to the monster using male pronouns right before he blacked out.

Although wendigos had once been human long ago, it was the last thing they looked like after transforming. Why hadn't the victim referred to the creature as an " _it_ "? How would he have known its gender? It just looked like a twisted animal. Dean let out a short expel of air as he made a realization.

It was then that John heard his boy speak in a quiet, grave voice, "Dad, it's not a Wendigo."

….

Dean can feel something wet against his cracked lips. It takes a moment, but soon it registers that the liquid coming from his mouth and staining his teeth is blood from his internal injuries.

He manages to shift his head, which felt quite heavy, toward his father, in hopes of asking if they're getting close to the hospital. Instead, before he can even attempt to speak, his green eyes meet something that causes him to freeze. His heart, itself, seems to stop as he sees what's before him. Sitting in the seat, right next to his feet, is the boney silhouette of the man in the black suit.

Despite the darkness forming at the edges of the boy's vision, he can distinctly see the man's profile. The stranger isn't looking in his direction, but instead glaring blankly ahead at the back of John's leather seat.

Dean knows he should be terrified, Dean knows he should be screaming for his father, but the only emotion that sweeps over Dean, in that moment, is peace. He finds his muscles relax, and for a moment, he feels no pain. He immediately knows the suited-man is the source of this bliss.

Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the man, conflicted on how he should be reacting. The blunt agony that swelled in the boy's body soon returns, causing him to wince.

"What..Do you..W-Want?.." Dean chokes, hacking up blood in between breaths. But the man only stares ahead. Dean knows what he wants.


End file.
